Баняяяя

Remember that earlier post about nudity? Well, turns out I practiced getting naked just in time; a couple of days later, I woke up to my roommates, Elise and Grace, informing me that today was Banya Day.

Here is what my guidebook has to say about the banya: "Nothing beats St. Petersburg winter like the banya. Less hot but more humid than a sauna, the Russian bath sweats out all impurity, cleansing body and soul." And sweat we did...

Armed with towels and soap, the three of us made our way to a banya recommended by a guy in the group. We'd heard that banya women were not welcoming but found otherwise: everyone was very helpful in showing us what to do and where to do it.

We betrayed our banya-virginity by glancing self-consciously around before stripping completely down, shielded only by our miniscule towels. Then we entered the banya itself, a large sauna-like room with different levels (the higher you go, the hotter it gets). We had been given a birch branch to beat each other with (see below) and got a special demonstration from a helpful banya-goer inside.



(Actual birch branch used for beating)

When it got too hot to bear, we rushed out and jumped in the curtainless showers, all modesty forgotten. We repeated twice more and left, feeling "beautifully brilliant," albeit a little thirsty from the gallons we had sweated out inside.

All I Wanna Do (bang bang bang bang)

...and take your money. (M.I.A.)

This post has been a long time coming, as I have had trouble figuring out quite what to say. It goes back to that first weekend out, the night I got pickpocketed by Dmitri, and has done a lot to bring the group towards our goal of notoriety and fame in the Bard-Smolny Student Handbook.

Earlier in the night (1 am?), we went to SPB, a student bar, which we picked for its renowned onion rings and super cheap beer. Coincidentally, SPB is also the only bar I’ve seen thus far with pitchers. We were sitting at a table, enjoying our greasy treats, when shouting distracted us from our beer and fries. Two men, older than the rest of the clientele, had started throwing punches in the next room; one called the other a fascist and jumped on top of him, WWF-style.

The bouncers rushed over to get a front row seat, clearing out only when the two men barreled through the doorway…straight for our table. I was sitting at the end of the table with a guy in the group. Though we had lost interest in the fight and were engrossed in a discussion as to the merits of McDonalds vs. SPB fries, alarm bells went off as we realized that our pitchers were in danger. I courageously covered the table, while Seth took a blow for the team (literally: a stray punch landed in the back of his head).

Mercifully, the guys headed out to the entryway and out of our sight. After a moment of silence, a shot rang out. We looked around at each other, not quite believing it but saw that the other patrons had all ducked under their tables, so we quickly filed suit. Moments later, another shot rang out and we heard the glass door crash.

While no one was hurt, this, like the later pickpocketing incident, convinced us to give up the жетон судбы.

On Nudity and Footwear

Compared to other Americans in my age group, I am not particularly modest: males and females alike have been subject to my spontaneously stripping down to a bra and underwear. However, compared to older American women, and especially Russian women of all ages, I am positively prude.

I don’t shower at the gym and therefore have no reason to change out of my shorts and tshirt, but most women there do. And then they hang out, naked, and talk/put on makeup/check themselves out (and who can really blame them? These chicks are hot). But I’ve remained fully clothed. However, with the impending banya visit in mind (more about that later), I’ve been slowly building up to full-on nudity. Last week, I spent an eternal 30 seconds topless; yesterday, I kept my bra on but was naked waist-down.

But today, after a particularly brutal workout, I knew it was time to take advantage of the sauna. Meaning that this was it — the moment we’ve all been waiting for — time to Go Big or Go Gnome.

Fixing my eyes on the locker in front of me, I took off first my top, then my bottoms. There! Naked. I looked around to see if anyone had noticed this incredible feat. No one seemed particularly concerned. Turns out being naked in a women’s locker room is something like going to the gyno: you know you’re naked; she knows you’re naked; yet you both carry on as normal. Interesting.

What they did notice, however, is that I had no sandals. Russians tend to be a bit…anal about their footwear. Shoes can’t touch anything you’d sit on; if anyone elbows you at a club, nothing, but step on your foot and you’re in for five minutes of apologies. At the gym, women put an enormous amount of energy into balancing on one foot on top of a sandal (god forbid their foot touches the unclean floor — not that there’s anything to muddy it, as even the most pompous of businessmen put on special boot covers before entering the building [see right*]).

*Interestingly, while searching Google images for this photo, I stumbled across a website that sells, among other things, beard covers and body bags.

Vodka here is cheaper than milk.

That is all.

Pickpocketed!

My biggest complaint about the dorms is that they are closed from 1 am to 6 am, meaning that if you go out, you can’t come back during those hours. It’s understandable — and reassuring — that a security guard is posted outside and only students who actually live in the dorms can get in. It’s not understandable that this guard needs to take a 5 hour break at a time when most people are coming back from bars/clubs.

Last night, we went out for real for the first time. At exactly midnight, we flipped a жетон (Metro coin; see right) to decide whether to stay out or not, though this decision had already somewhat been made for us, as the metro closes at 12 and the buses stop at 11. Happily, the жетон судбы told us to stay out and we were able to do so guilt-free. Why mess with fate?

We eventually ended up at Fidel, a bar plus dance floor, and I started dancing with a guy named Dmitri. I'm still a little unclear as to his origins: I'm pretty sure he's Canadian, but he might have been Russian and just trying to trick me. Dmitri and I dance for a while, until I discover that my money is gone.

The discovery of my missing money pisses me off. And I suspect that Dmitri had something to do with it. So, as we're dancing, I start trying to pickpocket him. No such luck — every time I move my hands down by his pockets, he grabs them and moves them up. In my mind, this is further evidence that he is responsible for my missing 500 rubles.

I'm already fairly angry, but it's not until I'm on my way home around 6am that the fury really sets in. I call Dmitri with the intent to yell at him for stealing my money, but Matt takes the phone away from me so I need to find another outlet for my anger. The next best thing turns out to be alternating between yelling and kicking things (and people) all the way back to the dorm.

Next time I'll just leave it in my bra.